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  Orestes

  The Warrior

  Laura Gill

  Copyright © 2012, 2014 Laura Gill

  All rights reserved worldwide

  Smashwords Edition

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  Other Books by Laura Gill

  Helen’s Daughter

  ORESTES

  The Young Lion

  The Outcast

  I.

  Hermione

  Chapter One

  “Get below, my lord!” Seawater streamed from the captain’s beard as he hollered at me.

  A harsh, stinging wind blew in from the south right into my face. The grayish mass of Cape Maleas with its infamous ship-breaking rocks loomed toward starboard. Heaving waves sloshed over the side, soaking the oarsmen’s benches and drenching the deck-boards of Sea Nymph. I clung with sodden fingers to the ropes stretching from bow to stern to keep from being flung overboard like the unfortunate sailor who had lost his grip taking down the mast.

  I had lost my breakfast hours ago. Gods knew, I was no sailor to tempt Poseidon’s wrath, and never would have set sail this early in the season had it not been for my uncle’s invitation. Menelaus’s bastard son’s wedding was an insignificant affair—certainly not worth this effort or risk—but the king’s ambassador had intimated that Menelaus might be amenable to offering me his daughter’s hand. To think, my beloved Hermione, from whom I had been separated these nine years, could soon be mine!

  Provided Poseidon did not send me and my four pentekonters filled with bride gifts to the bottom of the Aegean. Although I had taken pains to offer him many excellent bulls and horses before setting out from Tiryns, and had just thrown all our goats overboard as an additional sacrifice, it obviously had not appeased his wrath. Poseidon wanted the horses, my precious chariot team, or, worse, a human offering. Was the sailor he had hurled into the waves not sufficient to slake his anger? What capricious beings the immortals were, able to demand what they would whenever they would!

  Captain Nephos had lowered the sail, relying on Sea Nymph’s stout rudder and strong oars to steer us clear of the rocks, but the men’s strength was failing, our measures were not enough, and we both knew it. Many a good mariner had been hurled and broken against Cape Maleas, giving his bones to the deep, but I was the king of Mycenae, and this would not be tolerated! “It has to be the boy!” I shouted across to him. “Poseidon demands the sacrifice!”

  Nephos’s scowl only deepened. “You’re the king! You do it!”

  He was fond of the youth, I knew, but when the god raged and there was no animal available, the ship’s boy was always the first to go over the side. “Then bring him!”

  Turning aside, Nephos called out three names and made an abrupt gesture. Through the driving rain, I saw them seize the youth among them. I heard a cry, saw a scuffle. Nephos maneuvered his way to the stern. I followed him, maintaining a death-grip on the ropes and placing my feet carefully on the pitching deck.

  I forgot what the boy was called, but he was comely despite his bedraggled appearance, and white-faced, wide-eyed terror. He burned with the need to live. Struggling between his captors, he pleaded with the captain. Nephos remained stone-faced.

  What a shame. I reached out, placed a wet hand upon the youth’s head to consecrate him, and called out, “Poseidon, Wave Gatherer, Father of the Storms, accept this sacrifice—”

  “No!”

  “—accept this offering, this boy—”

  “No!”

  It was a bad omen when the sacrifice did not consent. Someone should have clubbed the youth over the head before he could refuse; it would have been kinder that way. “Either you go,” I hollered at him, “or we’ll all drown!” I tightened my fingers in his hair, and resumed the rite. “Poseidon, calm your anger. Grant us fair sailing to Sparta!”

  I gave the signal. “Now!”

  The sailors swung him over the side; he tried to kick his way free, but the men were stronger. With a horrified, outraged shriek, the captain’s boy went over the stern, a dark shape dropping into the heaving whitecaps, and was gone. Poseidon had swallowed his victim.

  Now I could go below. I made my way along the ropes to the pentekonter’s tiny cabin, which offered shelter from the rain, but not much else. Dark and cold within, it smelled like wet straw, goat hair, and stale vomit. I would much rather have been on deck, despite the peril, because the enclosed space amplified the ship’s every pitch and swell, and churned my empty gut.

  My teeth were chattering. I should have stripped away my wet clothes and huddled under the fleeces heaped haphazardly in the corner, but those, too, were damp and rancid. Let Poseidon find favor with the sacrifice, I reflected, and bring an end to this storm, so that we might make landfall before I caught a chill.

  *~*~*~*

  A weak sun broke from behind straggling cirrus clouds to scatter intermittent patches of light upon a calmer sea. Poseidon had accepted the offering, and we rounded Maleas without further incident. It was mid-afternoon now, to judge from the sun’s position. Nephos ordered the mast raised and the sail tacked to catch the prevailing tailwind.

  Mistress of Battles and Amphitrite were still with us, but Pipituna had veered astray during the storm. An hour later, though, she reappeared, having lost only two sailors and a five-foot length of her railing.

  We grounded the ships on a bleak Laconian beach, where we would spend a chilly night huddled around three bonfires. My valet, Eteokles, brought dry clothing from the ship’s hold. The sailors combed the shore for driftwood and dry brush; they would not accept my assistance, except in thanking the god with a splash of good wine upon the pebbled strand for his mercy.

  Just before sunset, my charioteer exercised my team by running them up and down the beach. I went over to him, and stroked the horses’ muzzles; their hot breath misted my palms through my woolen hand coverings. Horses did not like sea travel. Ixion had had to blindfold my pair to coax them aboard, and had stayed with them throughout. He was sixteen, too young to be a king’s charioteer, but his Thracian blood had blessed him with a remarkable gift for working with horses.

  “Make sure you eat something and get some rest,” I told him. Otherwise, Ixion would tend the horses all night.

  Phaidon, Sparta’s Lord Ambassador to Mycenae, awaited me by the nearer bonfire. He had weathered the squall aboard Mistress of Battles, and now hunkered under a double layer of furs, his pockmarked face gray with cold despite the fire’s crackling glow. “I fear I am no sailor, King Orestes,” he admitted soberly, “but we should reach Helas soon.”

  Another half a day’s sailing brought us to the port of Sparta in the Eurotas estuary. The governor of Helas clearly expected our arrival, for he sent a dozen sailors down to the beach to help the crew heave and chock the pentekonters above the tide mark. Ixion led my horses down the gangplank, followed by my companions with their weapons. Spartan porters unloaded dismantled chariots, four more teams of horses, chests of clothing, and the gifts I had chosen for Menelaus and his family.

  Echemus, the governor of Helas, was elderly and nearsighted, but had kept his wits, and knew how to entertain royal visitors. Two splendid chariots came clattering down the pebbled beach, their drivers the governor’s own grandsons, with orders to convey Phaidon and me to the citadel overlooking the harbor. A hot bath and clean clothing awaited us, while the governor’s kinsmen made certain that my horses were stabled, my retainers lodged, and my possessions loaded into covered mule carts for the trip north to Therapne. From the bathhouse where we enjoyed a vigorous massage, Phaidon sent a messenger to inform Menelaus that we had arrived.

  “It takes a messenger eight or nine hours to go from Helas to Therapne at this time of year,” he said, pillowing his head on his arms. “We have good roads here in Sparta, where they have been laid out, but not quite as many as in Argolis. So we will rest tomorrow, and give the king time to prepare his house.” A comely woman drizzled warm oil onto his hirsute back and started kneading his flesh. I closed my eyes to better enjoy the ministrations of the woman working my shoulders.

  That evening, I dined with Phaidon and Echemus, who commiserated with my troubles at sea. “I recall a season when Poseidon dashed more than two dozen ships against the rocks of Maleas,” he reminisced. “There was nothing but wreckage for leagues about when the squalls ended. Corpses washed ashore as far west as Cape Tainaron a month later.”

  “That was the sailing season right after the war at Troy ended,” the governor’s eldest son added.

  “Of course, it was!” Echemus retorted. “Did you think I meant otherwise?” Nursing his mulled wine, the old governor turned to me. “There were all manner of ships, King Orestes, from various lands, and their treasures. Poseidon took his share of Trojan gold. In summer, a few fishermen and spongers dare to dive those depths, but what gold and other treasures they have found carries a curse. Eight men have died horrible deaths at sea just from touching the plunder.” He shook a gnarled finger at his progeny. “Remember that: never cheat or dishonor the gods, especially in their own realm!”

  “We had not heard that any Trojan gold was recovered from the depths,” I observed.

  “Poseidon’s realm is deep and dark, King Orestes,” Echemus replied, “but sometimes merchants bring news of island shores where the god sometimes blesses the people with a gold ring here, a necklace there. Only, t
he story always changes, and the name of the island. Set no store in such lies. The gods grant their gifts when they choose, not when mortal men seek them out.”

  In recent years, my own experiences had shown me how temperamental and callous the immortals could be. Even their mercy was occasionally double-edged; the gods disliked when mortals were too content or prosperous. “You speak wisely,” I answered.

  Echemus could carry his end of the conversation better than some men half his age, but the season’s cold and damp enflamed his arthritic joints, and forced him, with many sincere apologies, to retire early.

  A heavy drizzle pattered against the roof tiles overhead and the sill under the closed shutters in my chamber. Eteokles stoked the glowing coals in the brazier before undressing me. For the first night in a week, I would sleep in a bed, and one covered with clean, snowy fleeces; a rough stint at sea made one appreciate small, simple pleasures. Echemus had also sent a lissome young woman to entertain me. Her considerable charms left me deliciously sated, and completely worn out.

  The rain abated by morning, although the sun never quite broke through the clouds. I exercised with the governor’s sons and grandsons in the citadel’s palaestra, wrestling and boxing, and then, after a brief respite, sparred with my companions. Or rather, I attempted to spar with them, and failed miserably. Thestalos’s spear broke through my guard, nearly slicing my chin, and Iobates succeeded in slamming his shield’s heavy boss into my shoulder.

  I found it impossible to concentrate. Never mind what Phaidon had said about resting the day, and allowing the messenger sufficient time to deliver a message to Menelaus—I should have been on the road already. After coming so far, I did not want to have to wait even an hour longer than necessary to see Hermione again, or to meet Menelaus, my closest living link to Father.

  Thestalos put up his spear. “Pay attention, my lord.”

  “Perhaps we should rest.” I lowered my waisted shield, and gestured the companions away.

  The messenger returned in the mid-afternoon with the Spartan king’s terse reply: “Come at once, Orestes! We shall celebrate your visit, and my son’s nuptials.”

  Had it been me alone, I would have hitched my team to the chariot and departed at once, but the porters and carts were not ready, and in his very regal and correct manner, Phaidon informed me that I would not reach Therapne before nightfall. “Arrive in a manner befitting the king of Mycenae,” he said. “The skies should clear by tomorrow. We shall set out in state, and Father Zeus shall smile upon your Spartan enterprise.”

  A man could read into Phaidon’s words far more than the intended meaning, whatever that was.

  I could not afford to overreach by assuming anything about this invitation, but Menelaus had better not be wasting my time. Surely he knew that I cared nothing for nor had the time to waste on his bastard’s wedding. A sudden fit of irritability prompted me to gnash my teeth. Why should Menelaus not give me Hermione? I was not some nobody. We had been betrothed since childhood, and there was no prospective suitor more fit to become her husband than the Atreid king of Mycenae. Yes, I decided. If Menelaus did not broach the matter, then I would, and I would not accept no for an answer.

  But Hermione was not a cow or mare to be bartered over! How could any man, even a king, be so blithe about asking for her hand? I had not seen her in nearly nine years, but by all accounts her loveliness had not diminished. She would surely be as beautiful as I remembered, with her alabaster skin, and her hair like burnished copper. Tomorrow, I would be bold, and declare my intentions with eloquent words and rich bride gifts, as befit a king and a worthy suitor.

  Chapter Two

  Mother Dia had blessed Sparta with bountiful resources. Phaidon extolled the land’s virtues all the way north. As he and I shared a chariot, he lost no time in pointing out every notable sight in the Eurotas river valley. “You see that terraced vineyard to your left? Wexamenos cultivates both purple and green grapes, but the sweetest ones come from that westernmost hill above the great house where the sun shines brightest.”

  Phaidon indicated the dark, arable soil, then a grove whose olives produced excellent virgin oil. Was he this helpful with other noble visitors, or was this a special case? Next, he described how abundant fish and fowl populated the estuaries, and that the mottled green marble so coveted throughout Hellas was quarried nearby. “There is also timber in the mountains, and excellent hunting.”

  What I saw was that those mountains, which were still blanketed with winter’s snows, girded Sparta to the north, east, and west, forming a natural bulwark against hostile neighbors. Gods grant me fair weather and a long enough stay to climb Mount Taygete! It was said that from Taygete’s summit one could simultaneously view the entire Laconian landscape to the east, Messenia and Pylos all the way to the sea on the west, and mountainous, forested Arcadia to the north. Now that sounded like a sight worth the trouble!

  With his precise mannerisms, Phaidon sounded like a scribe reciting the tallies. Moreover, his performance seemed deliberate, as though he meant to enlighten the one who would become Sparta’s next king. I sharply reined in my thoughts. He’s said nothing about my succeeding Menelaus, and made no promises. The ambassador might simply have been instructed to point out landmarks, and boast of Menelaus’s considerable holdings. I would know soon enough what my uncle’s intentions were.

  Toward midmorning, we passed Amyklai, a prosperous town with an ancient shrine to Hyakinthos. Phaidon expounded at length about the spring rites, when the young girls wove garlands, loosened their hair, and wept for the divine youth slain too soon.

  From his prosaic description, it would have been nothing I had not seen before. Girls wept for the young god in Argolis, too, while in Phocis, Hyakinthos was commemorated as the lover of Apollo.

  I scanned the road ahead. More pasture land, more groves and obscuring trees, and the omnipresent river, a greenish-brown torrent flowing toward Helas and the sea.

  At last, as the sun climbed toward its zenith, we reached our destination. A walled lower town occupied the east bank of the Eurotas, which wound its sinuous way north toward the Arcadian border. Spread across three hills above the town was the royal citadel Menelaus had built for his Spartan queen. I liked what the architects and laborers had done with the site, appreciating it increasingly more as we ascended to the palace with its expansive views.

  In the outer courtyard, a middle-aged man in the striped garments and gold ornaments of a palace official came down the steps. He escorted me upstairs to an apartment where I could enjoy a hot scented bath and change into more appropriate raiment before meeting Menelaus.

  As the official escorted me downstairs again, my stomach began fluttering, and my throat suddenly went dry. Beyond the vacant forecourt and the megaron’s brass-studded oak doors, my uncle awaited my arrival. I did not remember Menelaus, or know what to expect, even though others had told me that he was both congenial and astute, and a far easier man to deal with than my late father.

  Pine logs burned on the megaron’s great hearth. Additional light streamed in through the flue and the high clerestory windows. As I entered, a man rose from the throne set against the south wall, and, with arms outstretched, advanced toward me. “Welcome, King Orestes!”

  There was no mistaking Menelaus Atreides, king of Sparta. He was sixty now, weathered from the war and his long travels, and his famous red hair was liberally streaked with gray, but his age had not diminished his height or his barrel-chested physique.

  We embraced as kinsmen and fellow kings. Menelaus smelled like scented oil, worn leather, and a herbal lineament used for aching joints; his was not an odor to elicit strong memories, like the distinctive blend of horseflesh, saffron and new leather I always associated with my father. It disconcerted me to realize that, despite my nervousness, and my sincere desire to connect with him as the last, best living link to Father, I felt nothing at all.

  Perhaps I felt nothing because we were strangers, or perhaps because he had disappointed me, broken my engagement to Hermione, and distanced himself from my feud with Aegisthus.